


The Ordained

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Back to Middle-Earth Month, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Half-Elves, Halls of Mandos, Musings on Death, Peredhel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:48:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23288788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: Dior's death, and what comes after.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 36
Collections: Back to Middle-earth Month 2020: Endings and Beginnings





	The Ordained

**Author's Note:**

> Been wanting to write something about Dior's death for awhile - there are lots of interesting takes on it, and I wanted to give it a try myself!  
> "Badhron" is a Sindarin name for Námo/Mandos. All his names roughly translate to "judge" or "ordainer" - hence the title.
> 
> For B2MeM 3/18/20. My prompts were death of king [Endings], Kinslaying [Canon Endings], Sindar of Doriath [Character Groups], and the following Emily Dickinson poem for the official prompt:
> 
> Because I could not stop for Death–  
> He kindly stopped for me–  
> The Carriage held but just Ourselves–  
> And Immortality.

He feels the pull West, and lets it take him, though he is loath to leave his life. There is yet slaughter and torment behind him, and a king ought not to leave his people in such a state—but he is dead, and cannot stop the movement of his soul, one way or the other.

He is not afraid, not anymore. In life he had grown in uncertainty, knowing not what fate he would have when it came his time to die—and die he would, he knew, even if he took after the immortal race of his mother's father.

Eluchíl he is named: Elu's heir. But did he inherit his immortality, also? Strange that a king of Eldar would require an heir, but his mother saw the future, and knew he would die as sure as she would.

Dior had not the chance to find out: he is dead now, and called to the Halls, young even for a man of his father's kindred. It has happened, and he is gone, and though he knows not how his spirit will be judged, there is naught he can do to avoid the judgement.

He sees darkness and light: a void, and stars above it, nothing and everything all at once. The expanse is dizzying and vast, and he knows not how long he stands still beneath the endless galaxy above him.

At last a figure who approaches, and Dior knows him at once. It is Badhron, the Judge, lord of the Halls. Another spirit might have been afraid, but not he. Badhron pitied his mother when she sang, and Dior trusts in his mercy.

Badhron is indefinite, cloaked in darkness, thin white hands beckoning him forth. He speaks, though his hood does not rustle; Dior thinks it likely there is nothing beneath it.

_Dior Eluchíl._ The voice is dry, whispering. Dior steps forward, kneels at his feet.

"Lord," he murmurs, eyes cast down.

_You are alone of your kind,_ Badhron says. _Born in the Land of the Dead that Live you were, and died in a Kinslaying that destroyed your people._

Were Dior yet living, he would have begged mercy for the Sindar of Doriath, for his wife, his children. But he has no panic now, no fury—only numbness.

_The Quendi are offered a second chance._ Badhron steeples his fingers, and Dior realizes they are made of bone. _The Atani move onward. And the Ainur, my kindred, are not slain at all._

"But I am all three, and here I am," Dior says, daring a glance into the shadows of the hood. He sees nothing there but more stars, and he wonders if Badhron is not one and the same with his Halls.

_Yes._ Badhron makes no movement, but Dior senses a shift within his spirit. Suddenly the stars are gone, the Halls closing in on him, and glowing fëar shuffle through them, eyes fixed on endless tapestries.

_This is what your grandfather found when he came hence,_ Badhron says. _Do you hear the weeping? That is my sister, sharing their grief._

Dior nods, and then the shift comes again: Now the sky blazes with bright sunlight, and lines of spirits wind their way across a blank whiteness, disappearing into doors that flicker in and out of sight.

_This is where your father and mother departed,_ Badhron whispers. _Do you feel the humming in your fëa? That is my brother, weaving their dreams into their futures._

Dior trembles, in awe rather than fear. "Yes, Lord, I feel it."

Then the shift comes again, and Dior is back in the endless starlight.

_This is where your grandmother returned._ Badhron spreads his white-bone hands. _Do you see my robes, and the stars within them? That is myself, ordaining._

"Why did I come here, and not to the Halls of elves or men?" Dior wonders.

_Because I know not what to do with you, Child._ Badhron offers him a hand, and Dior accepts: the Lord lifts him to his feet like he weighs nothing at all. Perhaps he does not.

"Do I choose, Lord?" he asks—and he knows not what he shall choose, if he is offered such a choice. His parents are departed, into one of those winking doors, yet his people, his wife, and perhaps his children...they march past tapestries, until their weary souls find rest.

_If I ordain it._ Badhron's cape flutters in a windless breath, and Dior finds himself encloaked within it, so all he sees are stars.

"And if I do not choose?" he ventures.

_Thou art also Maiar,_ Badhron muses, and Dior is astonished to hear he is _excited. Curious._

He smiles, as much as a ghost can smile. "And could I stay here, with you, Lord?"

_For a time, perhaps,_ Badhron replies, and Dior can tell the answer pleases him. _My brethren may ask you to leave, to choose, but I will not tell them if you do not._

Dior laughs, and he sees the stars clearer, this time. "No, Lord, I will not," he promises. "I will be your ordained, if you allow."

_I do allow,_ Badhron agrees, _for the time that is given, though I cannot promise you immortality._

"It is like a carriage from which I cannot dismount," Dior says, remembering his processions through Doriath as its king. "Not until it is stopped by a force greater than myself."

_Then remain within,_ Badhron says. _I name you my ordained, Dior Eluchíl, until such a force arrives._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/).


End file.
